


remember me, love, when i've been reborn

by asmenuke



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: F/M, Gen, OTMA rides again, Reincarnation, characters will be tagged when they show up, follow-up to last year's ghost!gleb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 17:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16602389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asmenuke/pseuds/asmenuke
Summary: ...as a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn.In 2018, Anya Zakharina stumbles upon a ghost that shares her face. Things only get stranger from there, when the silver tabby shows up on her balcony, and Gleb Kirov, the librarian helping her research the mystery, starts showing up in her dreams wearing a Soviet uniform.





	remember me, love, when i've been reborn

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [chivalry fell on it’s sword](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12589444) by [asmenuke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asmenuke/pseuds/asmenuke). 



> This was supposed to be an October follow up to last year's Ghost!Gleb. Grad school, however, has a way of killing your life and energy, so here we are half-finished in November. This fic will make sense if you haven't read "chivalry fell on its sword," but you can read it if you want some background. 
> 
> Also, 100% sticking to a Hozier title theme. No regrets.

_ Anastasia Nikolaevna Malevskaya-Sudayeva. _

Anya stared at the projector’s screen, white as a sheet. At the front of the classroom, Professor Popov chattered excitedly about the Sudayev family.

“They married in 1929, a few days after Black Tuesday hit the United States and caused the Great Depression,” Vlad said cheerfully, “While the effects of the Depression weren’t felt in France until 1932, the Sudayevs--after escaping post-Revolution Russia--weren’t exactly keen on making a huge fuss, and that’s thought to be the reason that they toned the wedding down. It was a private affair, attended only by the bride’s aunt, the Countess Lily Malevskaya and her husband, who I am  _ not  _ related to, Count Vladimir Popov, who, well, there’s a funny story about him, actually…”

Anya tuned out the story about Count Vladimir Popov’s daring escapades during the Romanov dynasty and stared at the wedding photo of Dmitry Sudayev and Anastasia Malevskaya. Dmitry was a handsome man in a tuxedo, his hair slicked most of the way back in accordance of the style of the late 1920s, but a bit had escaped his pomade and was falling into his eyes. He looked radiantly happy.

Anastasia Malevskaya looked… content. She wore a Juliet cap veil and a drop-waist gown, and in contrast to Dmitry Sudayev’s near vibrating happiness, she looked… still. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. She looked like she wasn’t happy, but then, Anya might have been projecting. It was easy enough to do that, given that looking at Anastasia Malevskaya was like looking in a mirror. 

Anya continued to stare, feeling shaky in the seats of her lecture hall. There was no relation to Anastasia Malevskaya. There was nothing in her family tree. No  _ Malevskayas _ or  _ Anastasias _ or even  _ Sudayevs _ .

Anya tried to swallow, her eyes drifting to the bottom of the wedding portrait. At Anastasia’s feet, strange for a wedding portrait, slept a small grey cat. 

* * *

“Miss Zakharin!”

Anya turned around, smiling weakly at Professor Popov, whose genial smile eased her anxiety somewhat. “Miss Zakharin, you looked somewhat pale during today’s lecture,” Vlad said gently, placing one hand on her shoulder. It felt fatherly, rather than creepy, so Anya let it stand.

“I’m fine,” Anya reassured him, “Just…”

_ Do I tell him?  _

“Do you still have that slide of Anastasia Malevskaya up?” she asked. “With her wedding picture?”

“Why, are you thinking you’re going to look into the Romanov conspiracy?” Vlad said conspiratorially, “If you do, it’s an excellent choice for a thesis. Not too much historical scholarship has been done, and with your Russian, you could easily get a grant to go back to Moscow or St. Petersburg or Yekaterinburg and get some real work done.”

“No,” Anya said, startled. She hadn’t paid much attention to the rest of the lecture, purportedly about the origins of the French resistance against the Nazis. “But, uh, that actually sounds pretty great. That’s not really why I wanted to see her, though.”

Vlad obligingly brought up the slide, and stared up at the projection. Larger than life, Anastasia Malevskaya-Sudayeva’s smile seemed enigmatic in the dusty lecture hall’s early-autumn light. Anya stared up at her, aware of Vlad looking between Anya and the portrait of Anastasia.

“...I see,” he said after a long pause. “A distant relation, perhaps?”

“There’s no way,” Anya said grimly, “Which makes me even more curious.”

“Then start with research for this class,” Vlad said warmly, “I assume you’ll want to write your final term paper on the Sudayevs and the French Resistance, yes?”

“Yes,” Anya said, feeling a bit more settled at the idea, “I’d like that.”

“Then expect an email from me, and I’ll send you some resources to start off with,” Vlad replied, squeezing Anya’s shoulder and letting her go.

“Thanks, Vlad,” Anya grinned, “You’re the best.”

Relief loosened Anya’s limbs, and she shouldered her backpack, letting out a sigh. She glanced backwards one more time, only to see Vlad staring up at the portrait of Anastasia Malevskaya on the screen. He didn’t look away.

A frisson of discomfort set in. 

Anya walked a little faster, unbuttoning her jacket. She tried her best to think only about the warm September day, rather than Anastasia Malevskaya’s unhappy smile.

* * *

OTMA, of course, were fascinated.

OTMA consisted of Olga Gottrop, a graduate student from Germany, Tanja Holstein from Finland, Marie Alexandre from Cannes, and of course Anya Zakharin of St. Petersburg, Russia.

They’d met, of course, in a class on Russian literature that the history majors (Anya and Tanja) had been forced to take as an elective. Marie, the token literature student, had taken offense to Anya’s deadly sarcastic statement that the Brothers Karamazov was better in original Russian.

The ensuing argument took them from class to a cafe to a bar in Le Marais, where they ran into Olga, who was the PhD candidate Anya wanted to be when she grew up. Somewhere over drinks, they’d bonded, and now there was a standing brunch date for Sunday mornings. 

“This is  _ crazy, _ ” Olga said. “But now that I think about it…” She paused, pulling out her phone to look something up. She’d been the one to suggest the nickname OTMA, after the Romanovs, and it had been so wild and weirdly coincidental that it stuck. 

(The current group chat name was  _ OTMA: Eat The Rich _ . Anya was pretty sure that one was Tanja’s doing.)

“This is  _ amazing _ ,” Marie gushed, “Are you kidding me? This is the stuff of novels!”

“I don’t know, but I think it merits further research,” Anya sighed, sipping her cafe au lait, “It’s too creepy to be a coincidence.”

“Spooky,” Tanja hummed, “You sure Dr. Popov wasn’t just messing with you?”

“Doubtful,” Anya shrugged, “I mean, who has the time? He would have had to mess with the entire class, too. And he’s not known for pranks. He’s my advisor, I’d know.”

“Well, the Romanov conspiracy is still pretty neat,” Olga said, tossing her dark hair behind her, “Did Dr. Popov discuss it in class?”

“Not… really? I kind of zoned out,” Anya admitted, “I saw Anastasia Malevskaya and just… blanked.”

“Well, you know that people thought she was the legitimate Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova, right? The lost princess?” Olga lectured, “She shows up in Paris, where Countess Lily is the last lady in waiting of the Dowager Empress, Maria Feodorovna. She’s taken there by Vlad Popov, a commoner and con-man who elopes with Countess Lily, and we all find out that she’s the missing daughter of Countess Lily’s older brother.”

“Okay, but where does the lost princess bit come in?” Tanja asked, leaning forwards and nearly putting her elbow into the nutella for their croissants. Marie distractedly moved it, entranced by the story.

“Well, at the time, the Dowager Empress was offering a reward for anyone who could bring her granddaughter to Paris,” Olga explained, “And she met with Anastasia. And formed a really tight relationship to her, and then made this whole statement about, ‘there is no Anastasia, she was a dream, a beautiful dream,’ yada yada yada.”

“Because that’s not suspicious at all,” Marie snorted, rolling her blue eyes.

“Anyways, the dowager basically became Anastasia’s grandmother, and she was also present at her wedding to Dmitry Sudayev, who was the other guy that came with Anastasia and Vlad Popov,” Olga finished, before giving the girls a sharp grin. “But you know what the weird bit is?”

“What?” Anya asked.

“Lily Malevskaya’s older brother died when he was twelve,” Olga whispered, “Too young to father any daughters. And besides, his name was Ivan. So Anastasia Nikolaevna? Should have been Anastasia Ivanevna.”

“Holy shit,” Anya muttered, “So there’s no way Anastasia Malevskaya was Lily Malevskaya’s niece?”

“Nope,” Olga smirked, “But there is the distinct possibility Lily was covering for Maria, so that they could still have a nice happy family without having to expose Anastasia to more Soviet assassins.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait,” Tanja laughed, “Soviet assassins?”

“The KGB,” Anya grimaced, then paused, “Or wait, it was probably the NKVD at that point. I know the KGB were the ones who got my mom’s first husband.”

“Yikes,” Tanja snorted. Anya shrugged. 

“I think it was the Cheka, but I’ll check,” Olga hummed, ignoring Marie’s poor punning on  _ check  _ and  _ Cheka. _ “Anyways, I did some work on this as my bachelor’s thesis. Let me know if you need the papers. There was a librarian I contacted here in Paris, I can get you his name if you need it.”

“I’d love that,” Anya said, feeling a rush of gratitude for her friends, “There’s something spooky going on here, and I just want to get to the bottom of it.”

Olga reached across the table to squeeze Anya’s hand, and Anya had a sharp flash of what it might have been like to have an older sister. Her blue eyes were warm. Faintly, she heard Tanja ribbing Marie,  _ see, I told you people still say spooky! _

“What are friends for?” Olga grinned. Anya grinned back.

* * *

As it turned out,  _ spooky  _ wasn’t going to cover all of the strangeness that was happening that week. Anya’s flat, a tiny shoebox apartment off the Rue de Buci, gained one more inhabitant in the form of a small silver tabby cat that decided to make her balcony home.

“What on Earth am I supposed to do with you?” she whispered to the cat, who decided as Anya was retrieving the laundry to make her way into the apartment. “For all I know, you’re a stray who has fleas. This isn’t a pet-friendly apartment!”

The cat rolled over, showing her belly with a questioning  _ mrrrrp? _

Anya gasped, no match for the soft belly of a very cute cat and the accompanying dumb noise, and fell to her knees to immediately pet the tabby. 

“What do I call you?” she murmured, as the cat began to purr in earnest. Her phone buzzed a few times on the countertop, and Anya distractedly stood in order to grab it. 

There was an email from Olga with the subject line,  _ Hot Librarian Contact Info _ , and underneath it were several notifications from the New York Times, Agence-France Presse, and Buzzfeed. Anya opened the email first, opening the door to her tiny balcony and sitting back down with the cat.

_ Anya: _

_ Gleb Kirov was the librarian I talked to. He’s one of the history librarians at La Sorbonne--very sweet, very interested in the Romanov conspiracy, and I think he speaks a little Russian. His French is excellent, though. I seem to remember him being the son of ballet dancers who defected from the USSR?  _

_ Anyways, you can talk to him all you want about the horrors of the Soviet Union and Anastasia Sudayeva. And I encourage it bc he’s SUPER CUTE. Email him at gleb.kirov@sorbonne.fr and set up a time to get coffee or drinks or anything else and TELL US ALL ABOUT IT WHEN YOU DO!!!!!!! _

_ Love and mimosas, _

_ O(TMA) _

“Gleb Kirov,” Anya murmured to herself, watching the cat stretch in the sunlight flowing over her balcony. It was the perfect September morning, and she stretched as best she could in the cramped space, set down her coffee, and settled in. 

_ Subject line: Research on Anya Sudayeva _

_ Hello Mr. Kirov, _

_ Olga Gottrop is my mentor, and she passed your contact information to me. I was informed that you’re the best person to speak with if I wanted to research Anastasia Sudayeva before her contributions to the Resistance movements of WWII. I was wondering if you would be available to meet me for coffee at a cafe around La Sorbonne. _

Anya paused, Tanja’s sly voice in her head advising her to be a little less formal.

_...Or if you give me your coffee order, I can bring it to you at work and we can discuss there. Whatever works, right? _

_ Thanks in advance, _

_ Anya Zakharina _

She sent the email before she had a chance to think about it, and distracted herself with the Buzzfeed article that had popped up in her notifications. 

“Lily James’ Best Period Drama Looks,” Anya muttered to herself, shrugged, and clicked in. She sipped her coffee, taking in the article with what Marie would call “fifty percent brain power,” until she came to a photoset of the actress as Natasha Rostova. 

Anya looked from the cat, now sleeping peacefully at her feet, back to the article of Lily James laughing in a fur coat.

“...Natashenka,” she murmured.

The cat’s blue eyes slitted open. She made an affirming meow, sat up, and promptly curled up on top of Anya’s feet.

“Natashenka it is,” Anya muttered, then took a photo.

**_Anya to OTMA: Eat The Rich:_ ** _ I think I’ve been adopted by this cat. [cat.png] _

**_Tanja:_ ** _ omfg _

**_Olga:_ ** _ please tell me you’re going to take it to the vet if you’re gonna keep it _

**_Marie:_ ** _ please tell me you’re going to have us over to your apartment so we can all cuddle the cat _

**_Olga:_ ** _ AFTER you take it to the vet!!!!  
_ **_Olga:_ ** _ ANYA. TAKE THE CAT TO THE VET IF YOU’RE KEEPING IT _

**_Tanja_ ** _ : housewarming party?  
_ **_Tanja:_ ** _ catwarming party?  _

**_Olga:_ ** _ does your apartment EVEN HAVE A PET POLICY _

**_Tanja:_ ** _ HOUSECATWARMING PARTY _

**_Anya:_ ** _ i’ve named her natashenka. i’ve had her for five minutes and if anything happened to her i’d kill everyone in this apartment complex and then myself  
_ **_Anya:_ ** _ [diaz.gif] _

**_Tanja:_ ** _ [i understood that reference.gif] _

**_Marie: @_ ** _ tanja that avengers reference was like five years old  
_ **_Marie:_ ** _ @anya i knew introducing you to american television was a great idea _

* * *

“Dear Miss Zakharina,” Anya read dramatically to OTMA that evening, “I must admit, the first thing that caught my eye was your subject line. Not many people address historical figures by their nicknames.”

“Are you kidding? Bill Shakebag is my  _ bro _ ,” Marie snorted. “We have a special  _ bond.” _

“My boy Pyotr Tchaik!” Tanja crowed, swirling her riesling in her glass as Natashenka watched from her lap. Olga just laughed, watching their little group with the fondness of an eldest sister from the stove, where she kept an eye on the timer for their roast chicken in the oven.

“Can I go on?” Anya sighed, though her irritation left as quickly as it came when her friends simply smiled at her.

“I note that you too have a Russian name--may I ask if that’s the reason behind this interest? In any case, I would be happy to meet up: the Sudayevs are a particular interest of mine. I recently acquired some materials that may be of interest to you.”

“ _ Is the material his dick _ ,” Tanja stage whispered to Marie. Anya groaned, laughing in spite of herself.

“Would eleven suit you on Tuesday morning? If not, I’m sure we’ll be able to work out another time. There is a tea shop just steps from the library.”

“Oooh, he’s pulling out the big guns,” Olga noted, “I had to work my way up to that tea shop!”

“Best, Gleb Kirov,” Anya finished, flopping on the futon that was folded into a couch next to Tanja and Natashenka. Marie poured a glass of riesling without prompting and handed it to Anya.

“Why are you guys so obsessed with this anyways?” Anya asked, as Tanja switched from petting Natashenka to petting Anya’s blonde hair.

“Because Gleb Kirov is gorgeous, according to his staff photo and according to Olga,” Marie said cheerfully, “Like, I’m dating Louis, but if I wasn’t--”

“Just because there’s a goalie doesn’t mean you can’t score, Marie,” Tanja interrupted, and Marie scoffed.

“No, no, he’s Anya’s boy now,” she shushed, and shoved her phone--bearing an Instagram post from  _ @bibliotheque_sorbonne _ .

A handsome, dark-haired man smiled out from the screen, speaking earnestly about something. His wire-framed glasses had slipped halfway down his nose, and his hands, covered in latex gloves, gestured animatedly over a battered looking book. 

“Our special collections librarian Gleb Kirov talking about the significance of this Occitan manuscript discovered in Carcassone,” Marie intoned. “His instagram is private, but isn’t he adorable?”

“Very,” Anya agreed, but stared at the man on the screen.

She knew she had never met Gleb Kirov in her life. She grew up in St. Petersburg, and Gleb Kirov was a Parisian through and through, according to Olga. She’d never been on a date with anyone who looked remotely like him, and he certainly hadn’t been in any of her classes.

But there was something about him, something in the way he moved, something in the way he smiled…

The recording of Gleb Kirov looked up and smiled at the camera. Anya swallowed hard.

“It’s as though I know you,” Anya muttered in Russian under her breath, frustrated, “In another life.”

“Does he have a sexy voice?” Tanja wondered, and Marie tapped on the video to hear. All of them settled down to listen to Gleb Kirov’s rich baritone.

That was, of course, when Natashenka snapped awake and nearly pounced on the phone, meowing madly. All three women on the futon startled badly, yelping as Natashenka tried to paw at Marie’s phone.

“Tashka!” Anya cried, dismayed, “What the fuck,  _ chaton? _ ”

“It’s like she  _ knows _ him,” Marie gaped, watching as Natashenka zeroed in on Gleb and watched him with an intent focus.

“...that is  _ so _ weird,” Tanja muttered, looking at Natashenka. A considering look stole onto her face.

“Hey, Olga,” she called, “Do you still have that copy of Anastasia Sudayeva’s wedding portrait?”

Olga frowned, pulling something up on her phone after a few seconds.

“Yeah, here,” she said, handing it off to Tanja, “Chicken and rice and vegetables will be ready in a couple minutes, alright, guys?”

Tanja nodded distractedly, studying the photo.

“Hey, Anya,” she said, drawing Anya’s attention away from Natashenka and Gleb Kirov. Anya looked up, a little concerned by the strange look on Tanja’s face.

“What’s up?” Anya tried to ignore the deep sense of foreboding that settled over her at that question.

“You said Natashenka just kind of… wandered onto your balcony?” she asked.

“Yeah, why?” Anya said. Anya Sudayeva should not be combined with anything to do with her cat, she thought. It was beginning to make her nervous.

“Like, don’t freak out or anything, but uh…” Tanja passed the phone to Anya. “There’s a cat in the Sudayev wedding photo, and it looks  _ exactly _ like Natashenka.”

Anya stared at the cat sleeping at Anastasia Malevskaya’s feet, then dragged her gaze to the cat in her apartment intently watching Gleb Kirov on Instagram. A strange quiet fell over the apartment as Anya passed the phone to Marie, then back to Olga. No one spoke for a long minute, and the silence that settled over the apartment was only broken by the timer on the oven going off.

Marie forced a smile, standing and shutting off her phone.

“Okay! I’m done with creepy coincidences this evening!” she announced, “Let’s eat!”

Dinner went well, but no one argued when Anya switched the movie from Francis Ford Coppola’s  _ Dracula _ to  _ Roman Holiday _ . No one was particularly in the mood to watch anything remotely creepy that also dealt with reincarnation, least of all Anya. 


End file.
